


Rain

by bugsuit



Series: 100 Prompts - Archer [6]
Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood, F/M, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugsuit/pseuds/bugsuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheryl needs a lift, and it's not like they don't have a working relationship. They just don't have any other kind of relationship, which is fine by both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Tame on both ends, sex in the middle. It's like a sexy sandwich. Also, actually kind of tame for the kind of things Cheryl and Krieger are respectively into, but still here's a warning for some hitting, blood, and biting. Also, Krieger being weird and skeeve-experiment-y at the start. I think that covers it?

“Heyyyy. Listen. Can you come pick me up?”

Krieger frowned and tried to put her on speakerphone, but his hands were slippery and after leaving an unpleasant smear of red on the screen, he fumbled and dropped his phone.

There was a short pause, and then Cheryl smacked her lips thoughtfully, like she was about to try and be delicate about something. “Krieger?”

“Yup-yip.”

“Did you drop your phone again?”

“Yyyep.”

“Do I want to know what you dropped it into and why it _squelched?”_

She was always so matter-of-fact about these things. Cheryl wasn’t one to judge. It was one of the reasons he didn’t mind answering the phone when her caller ID popped up.

“Not if you still feel the same way about hybridisation.” He gingerly reached in and picked at the corner of it between finger and thumb, fishing it out of the mess and holding it up in front of him like a cartoon sardine. “Now’s a bad time. Can’t you call a cab?”

“Ugh, I _did!”_ Her tone turned insistent, and there was a sudden blare of a car horn and the screech of tyres. “The stupid cab driver wouldn’t let me bring Babou, and I forgot to bring bribe money. _This is why I don’t walk you, you furry asshole!”_

There was a distinct _reowwr_ in response.

 _“See?_ He’s been a total pissbaby about it ever since it started raining!” Cheryl kicked something metallic - probably a street sign - and Babou hissed faintly. “Come pick me up, I’m serious! I don’t even think I can drag him out of this bus stop any more without getting my legs all torn up. He’s really being shitty and I think this old lady is going to call the police.”

 _“Mmm.”_ Krieger’s noise of reluctance was met with silence, and for a moment he set the phone aside and kept working. The wet sounds of being elbow-deep in something surely reached Cheryl, with the receiver sitting so close, but to her credit she said nothing. He pictured her biting her nails in some shitty bus stop, the idiot cat hiding wild-eyed under her seat, and finally he sighed heavily and wiped his brow on his upper arm. “Fine. But if he pees in my van, I’m giving him a lethal injection.” A beat. “Of bullets.”

“I asked you to do that last year when he peed on my lap!”

“And?” Krieger dried his hands on a raggedy old towel and then shook it out and covered his subject with it. He picked up the phone by the one corner of its screen that wasn't wet. “I’ll be right there.”

“Okay. 77th, Central—“

“—Park West, yes. Still have the phone tracker.” He tapped in the GPS information.

“Creep.” She didn’t sound committed, though, so Krieger didn’t take it personally. Cheryl probably knew he had _everyone’s_ phone bugged by now. “See you when you get here. And hurry up! I’m not in the mood to get arrested over that animal laws thing again and I left my permit at home.”

She hung up.

Krieger wiped his phone half-heartedly on the towel, slipped it into the pocket of his pants, and shrugged off his lab coat. It wouldn’t do to pick her up with blood all over the sleeves. Either she’d be mad or horny, and he now knew from experience that neither would end well for him.

“Back soon!” he reassured the covered thing on the table, and flicked off the lights on his way out.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Ughhh,_ you’re _late.”_

“It only took me ten minutes,” Krieger replied, affronted, and pushed the door open for her.

Cheryl scoffed. “So I’m a little teensy bit high right now! Help me get the Big Wet Disappointment in the van.”

She was soaked. Apparently before she’d found the covered bus stop, she’d been wandering around in the rain long enough for her white collared shirt to plaster itself against her body. Krieger thought he recognised the bra she was wearing underneath.

“Is _that_ why you’re on the other side of Central Park?” He rolled his eyes, deciding that under the circumstances the bra wasn’t actually as interesting as it otherwise might be. He pulled a small bag of something green from the glove compartment.

“Oh my God, don’t just wave that around on the street! At least wait until I’m-“

 _“Catnip,”_ he enunciated carefully, jiggling the bag at her. “Let him smell it and then throw it in the back.”

Cheryl narrowed her eyes, then reached in to take it from him and gave it an experimental sniff anyway. She pulled a face. “Ew! Fine. Hey, Babou! Come get your pussy drugs!”

He momentarily stopped cowering at the end of his leash, his pupils twitching as he took in the sight of the familiar object Cheryl was shaking at him. He ventured a little closer and sniffed at the air, unwilling to approach her fully. Cheryl heaved the van’s side door open and tossed the catnip into it, and when Babou pounced after it she hurriedly slammed the door shut.

Krieger felt the vibrations of panicked cat feet skittering into a corner and patiently waited with one hand on the wheel, drumming his fingers vacantly.

“Okay,” Cheryl huffed, pulling herself up into the passenger’s side and dropping like a sack of very light bricks onto the seat. “Drive, science boy. Before Babou eats his way through all his cat marijuana.”

“Where to?”

He looked at her just in time for her to brush the wet strands of hair from her face and kick off her shoes (muddy, all over the footwell he just cleaned yesterday, but there was no point in complaining).

“Anywhere! Just take me out of range of the _bus stop beldam_ over there. God, look at her, she’s staring right at me.” She pressed her forehead against the window and peered back. “That, or the van. What was it this time? I just saw red and black.”

Krieger eased them out of the bus space, only sort of paying attention to the road. _“Clockwork Engines.”_

“Still working your way through Rush, huh?”

“Wouldn’t have to if they didn’t keep getting totalled. That first one was _perfect.”_ He sighed, settling back into his seat as they joined the flow of traffic, and switched on the wipers.

It was really pouring down. He might have been surprised to find Cheryl taking a walk in it, but quite honestly, the reason for that was beginning to permeate the air around her.

For a while, the only sounds were the rain drumming down on the roof, the vibrating shudder of the engine, and the faint tearing of plastic as Babou made a start on the catnip bag.

At some point Cheryl had begun gazing absently in his direction, and Krieger wasn’t entirely sure what to do about that.

“Why’d you have catnip?” she asked, and yep, she was definitely studying his face in the same way he’d been studying guts just fifteen minutes ago.

“Eh,” he said casually, “I keep some around, just in case.”

“Just in case of me?”

“In case my _research_ involves a cat.” He was set a little more on edge than he’d realised.

Cheryl hummed, dissatisfied with that answer, and managed to stare at the road for about ten more seconds before her eyes wandered back to him.

“You stink of animal blood,” she observed.

“And you stink of weed.”

“Yeah,” Cheryl muttered, folding her arms, _“well.”_ Krieger reached for the radio dial, but she batted limply at his hand. “No, shut up - _shut up!_ I wanna hear the rain, not your stupid mixtapes.”

Krieger exhaled slowly, puffing his cheeks out exaggeratedly, and began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel again instead. She could be such a pain.

 

* * *

 

“Hit me! Hit me, like, super hard. Right there,” Cheryl said, indicating to her cheekbone with a perfectly-manicured nail.

“But won’t that-?”

“Yes! _Hit me!”_

Her body was warm and sweaty, and she’d peeled herself out of her shirt a while ago to bother him more efficiently until he gave in. He had blood on his hands (animal, this time) – but that just made it kinkier, she’d said, and then they’d gone at it.

“Hit me, you big stupid-!”

So he hit her. And for a moment, Krieger’s heart and stomach had dropped, in a very unscientific and illogical way – because when her head turned back to face him, her expression was _livid._

“I- shit! Sorry! _You told me to!”_

Carol made a frustrated, guttural noise in the back of her throat and stopped grinding up at him. She let her hips drop. “I told you to _hit_ me, Krieger! Not pussy-flap at me!”

His jaw worked for a second on its own, momentarily speechless, before he came out with an an insulted “Oh my _God,_ woman! _Fine!”_

Krieger pulled his hand back for a second try, but Cheryl grabbed his wrist and squeezed. Her hand was like a vice.

“See? Your backhand is like a damp sock!” Cheryl rubbed her thumb up his palm experimentally and then her head thudded disappointedly down onto the tiled lab floor. “Baby hands. I’m dating a guy with baby hands. What do you do in your stupid lab all day, _moisturise?”_

“I-”

“Just try choking me or something,” she suggested and Krieger immediately obliged. “Ergh – what – are – you – _doing?”_

“Choking you! I thought-?”

Cheryl’s eyes rolled, but not in the sexy choked way, just in a sarcastic and annoyed way, and then there was an uncomfortably sharp pressure in his stomach where she was jamming her knee into it, so Krieger let go and sat up onto his knees to give her space.

Cheryl scraped the stray hairs back behind her ear, staring up at him like she was evaluating him or something, and leaned up on her elbows. “What I want you to do,” she began carefully, her voice rising in octaves and urgency as the explanation dragged on, “is kiss me, maybe _bite_ me a little, and then you’re gonna make your way down and eat me out like I’m the world’s sloppiest cake mix. And there will not be another _sorry,_ or an _I thought you wanted_ or anything like that out of you for as long as it takes me to gush all over your threateningly sharp cheekbones and your creepy movie villain beard.”

Krieger thought about it.

And then he leaned down, placed his soft hands over the sharp edges of her hips, and bit hungrily at her collarbone.

 _“Shit, yeah!_ Screw the baby hands, I want the _teeth!”_

Her fist thumped on his shoulder, uncurled, and her nails dug in. Krieger could do biting. Maybe if he bought himself some time with that, he could fix the choking thing, too? He trailed his tongue down, nicked her a little with a canine, felt her shudder. Maybe she wouldn’t be so fussed about the hands thing if he could convince her he had other assets.

Cheryl’s hand left his shoulder and coasted into his hair, and he panted hotly against her navel when she tugged at a fistful of it. Being trash-talked into making this all about her didn’t mean he couldn’t get _something_ out of this, and Cheryl had accidentally found one of those somethings.

“Do that again,” he heard a haggard voice say, barely recognising it as his own, and she obliged by tugging hard at his hair and forcing his face closer to her crotch.

“Less talk,” she breathed, “more fuck.”

 _God,_ she tasted amazing.

“Okay, wait! Wait.” She pulled him away again and he found himself forced to stare up at her, his mouth still open and exhaling in a long, warm sigh. “Go turn on the speakers. Put on some music. Something. I can hear Archer talking to himself.”

“It’s the hall feed,” Krieger explained, but she just pushed him away and let go of his hair.

“Whatever! Turn it off and put on some music before I lose my ladyboner.”

“Uh,” he said, feeling a lot more lost than he had a moment ago, and dabbed at his chin with the heel of his palm. “Is – is Rush okay?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Ooh! Put on some Creedence Clearwater!” Cheryl exclaimed suddenly, and scrabbled for the glove box. “Do you have any? Please tell me you have Pendulum…”

Krieger reached over and opened the glove box for her. “I thought you said you didn’t want music.”

“Uh, _yeah,_ like, an hour ago!” Krieger glanced down at his watch. Eight minutes. “Did you just clean out or something? All you have in here is – is that Yello?”

Krieger lit up. “Ooh! Forgot I had that. Put it on,” he urged. “I just tweaked the audio system.”

Cheryl slid the CD into the stereo and jabbed at random buttons until something happened. “Can I crank it all the way up?”

“Sure, if you want to make Babou go deaf.”

Cheryl slumped down in her seat like jelly, her shoulders twitching in time to a hoarse laugh that was just loud enough to hear over the opening drums now blasting out of the speakers. “Oh my _God,_ I forgot he was even _in here,”_ she giggled, and then leaned around to check on him. “You hear that, Babou? That’s the sound of your sensitive feline earballs exploding!”

Krieger gingerly dialled the volume down a few bars without looking, and returned his hand to the wheel before Cheryl turned back to face front. “How is it?”

“What? It sounds like porno music, Krieger. Are you sure you don’t have any Clearwater?”

He glanced sidelong at her, frowning enough to make creases on his forehead (he could tell, because she was staring at his face again). “It’s _ambient._ Take it or leave it.”

“Do you even still like Creedence Clearwater?”

“Yes,” he muttered sourly, “but all my albums are at _home._ Where I can listen to them on vinyl, like any sane human being.”

Cheryl hooted faintly again and stuck her stockinged feet up on the dash. “You’re not a sane human being, you big liar.”

“Says—“ something, something _clever_ “—Little Miss Non-Mutually-Exclusive Sex and Violence!” Damn. Terrible.

“Yeah,” Cheryl snorted, “that’s pretty hot, though.” She stared up at the rain-spotted windshield and patted her hands rhythmically on her knees just slightly out of time with the music. “I looked it up. Some people online are into that, too. You’d probably finger a dead cat, so you’re like, _deep_ crazy. Crazy in your bones.”

Krieger waited until he’d pulled up to a stop-light and turned to glare at her disapprovingly. To his surprise, Cheryl was ready for it, her wide eyes running across his face in quick, darting movements. She was memorising it, he realised, and he quickly turned away again before it could get any more awkward.

Cheryl sighed loudly, folding her hands on her stomach and letting her head drop back against the seat. “You’re still super hot when you’re mad. Like a Bond supervillain.” She shut her eyes.

“How high _are_ you?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the road this time.

“Honestly? It’s wearing off a little. Hey, do you think catnip works on humans?” she mused, her train of thought lost completely, and she gasped as Krieger suddenly hit the brakes. “Jesus! I’m not wearing a seatbelt, you silken-palmed _jerk!”_

“We’re here,” he grated out, and leaned over her to open the door. When he returned to an upright position, a small part of him regretted leaving the warmth behind.

Cheryl glanced out at the street. It took her a moment or two to register that the huge mansion looming over them was her house, and then she huffed indignantly. “Well, you didn’t have to jar me through the windscreen.”

“Don’t forget your ocelot.”

Krieger didn’t look at her, but he could sort of see her straightening her dress and fussing with her shirt out of the corner of his eye. Eventually she ran out of things to be moody about and hopped down onto the pavement, tiptoeing through a puddle to reach the sliding door.

“Oh, I get it! Clockwork _Engines!”_

“Yep, yep, yep.”

The door slid open. There was a scuffle, some hissing, some cursing, and then a weight left the van as Cheryl coaxed the animal out with a handful of loose catnip.

“You need to vacuum back here, Krieger, Babou’s drug fix totally got everywhere.”

“Damn it,” he muttered quietly. He took a deep breath, ducked across to fish Cheryl’s heels out of the footwell, and leaned out to waggle them at her. “Shoes,” he indicated sharply.

She whirled around, already several steps towards the house, and made an angry noise before tiptoeing back across the wet concrete to grab them out of his hand. Krieger was about to slide back into the driver’s seat when she suddenly made a lunge for his tie, holding him firmly in place with that vice grip of hers.

“Wait. Can you bite me again? Like, just a little. On the mouth.”

“What? No!”

She bobbed down onto her heels, two little splashes of rainwater licking up her tights, and back up again. He decidedly did not look at her chest, because that was a trap and Krieger was at least a logical person who didn’t fall for traps very often. Even if he _did_ recognise the bra. _“Please?_ I’m totally just gonna go think about it anyway, can’t you give me one for the road?”

Krieger frowned at her again, and to his dismay, she gave a low, breathy laugh and pretended to fan herself.

“Krieger, come _on._ You’re doing that intense face again. It’s not fair to tease.”

“Do I-?” He paused, forcing his face back into neutral. “…Do I really look like a Bond supervillain?”

“What? _Yes,_ now come on! Do something evil to my mouth so I can go imagine you with bear hands!”

He contemplated this for a moment. Then he closed a fist around her collar, squeezing it just a little so that it tightened slightly around her neck and her face lit up with excitement. “Science grant. Ten K.”

 _“Five_ K for your pathetic strangulation attempt,” she rasped out, but her eyes were gleaming.

“Eight for my excellent villainy impression,” he reasoned, “and this.”

Krieger leaned in and locked his lips around hers, mouthing around the little chirp of excitement she let out. She kissed him back, waiting for it, and when Cheryl’s hand yanked encouragingly on his tie, Krieger bit down on her lip until he tasted blood.

He left her standing in the rain with a dazed, victorious expression and watched in the side mirror as Cheryl slowly turned to wander indoors, her bedraggled ocelot skulking along behind her.

Krieger hooked his fingers behind his tie and tugged it loose, tossing it in the back with the catnip, and cranked up the stereo volume.

There was an iron taste in his mouth, which meant his teeth were probably a little bloody, but with the illegal-ass window tint it wasn’t like anyone was going to see him.

He could do Bond villain, easy. He just couldn’t do hands.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who's interested, the music that came on in the van was _Yello - Dr. Van Steiner_.


End file.
